I feel so weird. For the first time ever I’m trying to write a blog on another computer, in another room, in another town, in another state. I don’t have any Pez to eat, and it all just feels so wrong. I’m not one of those people who fears change. In fact, I have an extremely short attention span and I can get really bored if things are all samey and stuff. If one of my restaurants changes a menu I like or one of my TV shows changes actor’s on me (I’m talking to you, Roseanne, when you got a new Becky) I am unhappy. But if I can change my furniture, my underwear, or my mind….those things are all fine.

“What the hell is she talking about?”

I have no idea. I guess I was just letting you know that in the case of writing this blog, I like same. Right now I am sitting in Missouri, and this room is kinda warm, and this chair makes my butt unhappy, and I am having trouble focusing on anything but the fact that I have quite a few split ends and I need to paint my nails.

But I sat down on this uncomfortable chair to tell you something important: My GPS lady is a bitch.

I used to like her. She was helpful. She was sweet. I gave her a name. I thanked her nicely when she got me to my destination. I wanted to French kiss her when she helped me find some coffee on a long, boring trip. We were traveling soul mates. Like Alice and that Donkey going to the bottom of the Grand Canyon on The Brady Bunch. It was magic.

At least until she stabbed me in the back.

The night before my two day drive to Missouri, I hosted my Bunco group of 11 for dinner, drinks, and what was supposed to be Bunco playing, but I guess we were having too much fun for that. Anyway, I cooked. I cooked alot. I also packed alot. Ran errands alot. And got my freakin’ ducks in a row. Alot. And due to the fact that I had talked my friend Stephanie into flying to Houston and doing the 2 day drive to Missouri with me and Ethan, I had to pick her up at the airport at 11:00 that night, and I couldn’t even drink! Well, I couldn’t drink my normal amount. I may have had a glass of something. The point is that the next morning I was really counting on my little navigator buddy to get me to my halfway hotel in the quickest and safest way possible. Since I thought we had a special relationship, a special trust, I did not question her. I should have questioned her.

What was supposed to be a 6-7 hour drive on day one, ended up a 10 hour drive due to the fact that my “friend” totally screwed me over and took me in a huge circle of wrongness, and by the time my stupid ass figured out that she was messing with me, it was to late to take an alternate route, because since I was idiotic enough to trust her, I already paid for a hotel in Little Rock and by God I was going to sleep in that hotel in Little Rock. So of course there came a point in the trip where we realized that we were almost out of gas. The light came on. No gas stations. Miles. More miles. Even more miles. No gas. Since we were on a road that looked like the roads of my nightmares in which the mountain men come to get me, I was deathly afraid of running out of gas. I have AAA, but I doubt that AAA could save me from a toothless man named Cooter Bob who’s just lookin’ to get hitched..

Through the force of sheer determination, we did eventually find a gas station that was so old I did not understand the archaic pumping system, and the lady at the register had no teeth, and where I — for the love of all that’s holy in this world — had the misfortune of having to pee like never before, and where on the way to the bathroom missus no-teeth told me to “don’t spill dem buckets” and I said “What the hell is in the buckets?” and thank God it was only asbestos laden ceiling leak water and not, as I had feared, where I was expected to go to the bathroom, although once I saw the bathroom I would have been happier to pee out front in the buckets. And although I felt fortunate that this old-timey scarey as hell gas station was willing to take my credit card, I did fnd out in the next few days that someone had gone on a Wal-Mart shoppin’ spree with said credit card account, therefore causing me a buttload of headache, and I can’t help but wonder if Wal-Mart sells false teeth and if so if there might possibly be a fat, somewhat greasy lady who smells like gasoline running around in them there hills with a brand new smile, courtesy of the blonde city girl who was too dumb to work a gas pump and pretty much accused her of having poop buckets.

More Vacation Stories To Come…

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